A/N: Hi guys, whazzup? Okay, yes, disappearing without any sort of note for more than half year wasn't cool, but real life and school had quite a bit of crap going on for me and I guess I'm a pretty shit writer to start with. So much for 2 chapters a month, huh? *snorts* Anyway, I hope y'all are well and still breathing, and thanks to the bunch of you who actually sent me PMs to make sure I wasn't lying in a morgue or something to that extent. Hopefully, this return will be permanent (or a slightly longer one anyway) with many new plot devices- planned out beforehand (oh, look, I'm actually planning what to write for once!).

So lengthy weird unnecessary author's note done, you may peacefully proceed to the absurdly overdue 3rd chapter of the rewrite.

"This one does not take threats lightly," the hanar droned on. "Relinquish your weapon at once."

"Bah!" a kind of menacing -and rather stupid-sounding- Krogan bellowed, "You jellies don't scare me! I'm a krogan!"

"Then enkindle this!"

Bang - bang!

The Krogan slumped to his knees. "Oh, I was so stupid! Please, Blasto, forgive me! I don't want to di-" followed but the disgusting sound of a throat gurgling with blood booming through gigantic, perhaps a little too-HD speakers. The screen faded to black.

Then the blinding bright lights of the theatre came back. The shuffling of feet, yawns, chattering, stretching of stiff backs.

Finally. The place was empty.

I worked up my omni-tool.

D-17, F-20, A-23, G-2, H-9.

I rushed to the seats and true enough - each of them had a paper bucket left behind, quarter-full with popcorn and other alien snacks. I stacked them up in my right arm and looked for the remaining 15 seats.

I looked like a sweaty, terribly popcorn-overloaded usher by the time I made my way out through the back entrance. I checked the time - it was almost 15 minutes to midnight. I was running late. Terribly. I rushed down the 10 flights of stairs, half-running, half-juggling, all the while keeping a steady arm on the buckets.

A cleaning cart stood alone when I reached the ground floor.

Perfect, I thought to myself.

I dumped the buckets into the black trash bag attached, then made a knot so it wouldn't fall off if I had to run later on. A deep breath, and I pushed the cart through the doors, to the open air of Nos Astra.

It didn't take long for my body to become irritated by the drastic change in temperature - not moving for two hours in the cool, air-conditioned theatre had made the sweltering evening rays even more unbearable.

Where were the city-wide, air-conditioned domes when you needed them? Eco-friendliness be damned.

A few minutes later, I was nearing my destination - the docks. Illium being what it was, normally would have its docks awfully busy and abuzz with activity - the shifting of goods and sometimes slaves- but not tonight. Tonight was Janiris - the asari's St Patrick's Day, which meant that the majority of the planet's population would be too busy downing Thessian Temples and puking purple vomit in their gold-plated toilets to care about anything else apart from their supply of booze and toilet paper.

The silence only made me more worried, and wary. The entire area was silent, save for the slight squealing of the cart's wheels, my short breaths and clanging of leather shoes on steel, the howling of Illium's (unfortunately) warm breeze, as well as the faint echoes of fireworks in the background miles away - all amplified by the unnatural and eerie quietness caused by the celebrations.

But we'd planned the meeting on this occasion deliberately, and jittery nerves were not going to ruin our weeks of effort.

"No, Syrma! Stop repeating that!"

I froze in my tracks.

"Ugh, if I actually had any credits, we'd be off this port two days ago!"

I turned my head towards the direction of the voice. It -I correct myself, he- sounded young. A human accent. New Jersey, maybe? My eyes caught the distinct warm orange glow of terminals pouring out from the open hatch of a small ship parked among several large ones. Judging by its size, it was private, not commercial and also very rundown - the paintjob was a total wreck, the ship's metal plating a dull and tarnished grey-and-black, along with a red tinge due to rust. My nostrils picked up a faint charred stench as I neared with every step.

Somehow, the orange light turned into a bright, luminous red. "No, don't call him! He told me to get out of his life the last time I called. He's not going to lend us anything!"

"Hey, buddy," I called out, pistol drawn and hidden from view behind the cart. Maybe it was a stupid thing to do, with all things considered, but heck, if anyone was going to call the cops on me later, better if I put a bullet in him first. "Got some problems?"

There was a moment of silence, then the fumbling and dropping of metal. I waited. There was the vague, slanted shadow of a moving figure, courtesy of his ship's red lighting splashed on the metal floor. Then the figure itself stepped out - slightly curly brown hair, blue eyes, dressed in a grey T-shirt and cargo pants that were covered in omni-gel stains. The man was around my height and looked young -maybe fresh out of college- but the black grease marks on his face spoke of a person who tinkered with mechanics much more often than someone of his age should.

"Uhm, yeah, actually. My ship's out of fuel and I don't have enough credits for anything other than a bottle of water."

Yep, definitely New Jersey.

"Your ship looks like it needs more than a refuel, no offense," I said. "It's going to break apart at your next relay jump."

"Yeah, well, that's what I think to myself almost every day, but Syrma always pulls through." He smiled and gave a proud pat on this ship's hatch cover.

The revelation was troubling. Judging by his situation, the man would be camping in his ship all night, and was a potential tattle-tail if he ever decided to walk around whistling and poking around in corners for junk to sell or fix his ship.

"I'm in a rush so I don't think I can help you with that," I started saying, "but for what it's worth, there's a hotel and bar named Eternity down that way and it's giving away free drinks and snacks. Maybe you could try your luck and sneak in some food for yourself, and maybe a shower?"

His face lit up. "Wow, thanks! I think I will!"

I walked away and tucked myself into an obscure corner.

Sure enough, he left his ship moments later, a bag in hand, whistling.

(INSERT LINE BREAK HERE BECAUSE FF IS BEING A BUGGY BITCH)

The big man wasn't happy at the lateness of my arrival. Or at least, until I showed him what he wanted. "You're late."

"I got stuck in traffic."

"Where's the stuff?"

"I flushed it down the toilet." Greeting my sarcasm were guttural grunts from the batarian. I rolled my eyes. "Of course it's with me, genius."

"Show it."

I removed the black trash bag from the cart and emptied its contents unceremoniously onto the ground before him. Popcorn spread out on the filthy patch of soil - somewhat of a rarity on the tech-focused Illium. A tiny ball of chewed gum rolled to his foot, clad in his signature white-and-blue ceramic armour.

"What are you fools waiting for? Check them!" he yelled, not to me but at his handful of underlings, mercenaries who frankly looked like they needed to go back to school and retake basic pistol training.

Two of them jolted to attention and promptly started picking out the buckets, tearing out the hidden red packages hidden at the base and bottom of each and every one.

Soon enough, 40 packs of pure, undiluted red sand crystals were laid out individually on piece of cloth they'd rolled out.

The batarian laughed. "I hate to say this, but well done, human. I half-expected you to not show up at all."

"Unlike most of your goons here, I'm not actually stupid. Now where's your part of the deal?"

As if on cue, a lackey brought forward a suitcase. "400,000 credits stored across untraceable chits in denominations of 5,000 each, according to your wishes," she reported, revealing the contents of the case for my verification.

I gave a satisfied nod. "Nice to see the Blue Suns still make deals the old fashioned way." I raised an arm to accept the case, but it remained stationary, in the hands of the Blue Suns accountant. The barrels of five Avengers were pointed in the direction of my head within the next two seconds. "What the hell is this supposed to be?" I growled.

So much for the 'old school' way.

The batarian smirked. "You see, human, there have been 'complications' with regards to the later process of this particular deal. The Blue Suns have been under tight watch from C-Sec and we can't sell our products on the Citadel now."

"That's none of my business. I'm only your middle-man on Illium. Done deal."

"Except we don't really trust any other outsiders to finish this transaction for us, apart from you."

I rolled my eyes. "Gee, and whatever exemplary quality of my character gave you so much faith in my integrity?"

The Blue Suns lieutenant laughed. "I don't! I trust your love for money and your life." As if to prove his point, he took the suitcase -my suitcase- of chits, dropped it flat onto the ground in front of me and planted a smug foot on it. "You have two options, human: die here with incendiary rounds burning through your flesh, or help us finish this deal, and we'll pay you double."

Cliché, I thought to myself. Why do the bad guys always say you have a choice when at least one of them involve dying on the spot?

"I'd bet Tarak doesn't know about this, does he?"

"Bah, Tarak is busy enough making sure he comes back breathing from Alchera with at least three eyes still working!"

Alchera? But isn't that-

My train of thought was interrupted by another bellow from the Blue Suns leader. "Anyway, I want you on the Citadel within three solar days, or I'll drill four more sockets into your pathetic human face, got it?"

I was starting to get annoyed. This was turning into a discount big-bad-criminal scene from Blasto. "So you want me to deal for you, without providing any sort of transport? What are you, cheapskates?"

"Like I said, the Blue Suns can't go near Council space without getting a lockdown, so you're on your own." He tossed a credit chit onto the dirt. "There are 10,000 credits in this. Make sure my men see your rat face on the Citadel within three days, or else." The batarian made an exaggerated motion of slitting my throat.

Then the world went dark as a rifle butt connected with the base of my skull.

I woke up face-down in the dirt, among the previously-discarded strawberry popcorn and bubble-gum wrappers.

Assholes.

The back of my head felt like lead, eyes stinging from still-blurry vision.

"Fucking dicks," I cursed loudly.

A night of pre-planned bubbly and other wonderful virtual luxuries, utterly destroyed by a Powerpuff-Girls-meets-Kim-Possible, lame, villainous, cheapskate batarian.

My gun was gone, and I had to spend the next ten minutes searching for the 10,000 credit chit in the smelly, warm soil.

I didn't have to check my omni-tool for time - dawn was almost breaking.

I shouted a few more curses as I slowly made my way back to the more civilised area of Nos Astra. My mind was reaching overdrive mode by the time I reached my apartment.

I had concluded, after a shower, that my virtual life was officially shit: a red sand deal on the Citadel in three days and with 390,000 less credits in my pocket than originally intended. Worse still, Janiris celebrations last three days so there wouldn't be any off-world trips for the following two.

To make things worse, the batarian cheapskate mentioned Alchera.

Napier had previously drilled the name of the planet into my name - the planet Shepard's ship exploded above - as well as something about Cerberus before disappearing without a fucking word.

I cursed the writers at BioWare. Plot twists and mysteries be damned - whatever happened to good ole' Tetris and Pac-Man?

But it turned out, if you bitched about things hard enough, a miracle would come: in the manner of fireworks outside my window, forming the words Embrace Eternity!

Eternity.

I took a cab down to the docks after a short nap. Beauty sleep tended to take a dive in importance when you're strong-armed into a red sand deal right on the Council's doorsteps.

My eyes scanned for the unmistakable ugly, tattered ship, but it was my nose and the wretched stench of burned metal that led me to my destination. True to my guess, Mr. Jersey was hunched over an exposed panel on the exterior of his sad ship. I stopped about a metre behind him.

"Hey, Jersey!" I shouted.

He spun around, brows furrowed in confusion, then broke into a small smile when he recognised me. "Uh, hey!" he responded.

His hair was noticeably less oily, face mostly rid of black marks apart from fresh ones, and his clothes looked a lot less like a poor space-faring handyman's.

"I see you've freshened up. I take it that Eternity security didn't throw you out?"

He gave a boyish, sheepish smirk. "No, actually. I kinda cloaked my way in and out." His furrowed brows returned. "Wait, what did you call me?"

"You're from New Jersey, right?"

"How'd you figure that out?"

I smiled. "Call it a hunch." I walked forward and offered an outstretched hand. "I forgot to introduce myself - Grayson Kovac. I'm a... well, businessman from Boston."

"So I guess we're almost neighbours then." He shook my hand. "I'm Daniel Webin, but people just call me Dan."

"Well, Dan, I'm going to cut straight to the point - I need your help."

"I'm listening."

"I have a last-minute business deal on the Citadel, and I need to get there by tomorrow. Unfortunately, there aren't any off-world ships during Janiris, so I was wondering if you could fly me there. For a fee, of course."

Dan shrugged his shoulders. "I'd send you there for free, but like I told you last night, I don't have the fuel."

"That won't be a problem. I'll get your ship filled, and even get a couple more bolts into the frame to make it sturdier if you want, and I'll pay you 4,000 credits once we reach the Citadel."

His eyes widened. "A-are you serious? Just like that? No hidden fees, no terms, nothing?"

I gave him a reassuring nod. "It's a promise. When's the earliest we can leave?"

The ship, or Syrma, as Dan had repeatedly called it, was a tight squeeze. The interior of the ship was dark, illuminated only by the orange and blue glows of on-board consoles.

I'd made myself comfortable (or to the best I could anyway) beside him in the co-pilot's seat, watching as he one-manned the entire panel of rather dubious and obsolete-looking controls.

"Don't worry, I've been flying this baby for seven years, everything's safe," he's said after noticing my slightly perturbed face.

"How old are you? You look like you belong in a college dorm playing beer pong on a Monday night."

"I'm 25, actually. I always wanted to be in space, but my parents didn't really have any money, so I dropped out of high school, got a job at the local Tupari factory, saved up enough when I turned 18 and bought Syrma from a scrapyard for 20,000 credits. Then I got a job at a repair workshop, so I dragged her there with my uncle's truck and spent most of my time and money getting her space-worthy over the next five years."

"So you've been flying solo for the past two years?" I asked. "No friends, no family, nobody with you?"

"Nope, my dad's hardly sober enough to pee standing up, my mother left when I was two, and I have an older brother who hates me for not earning my keep by getting a 'real job'. I dropped out of school, so I don't have friends, I guess."

Crappy parents in real life, crappy parents in games too, I thought to myself. "Wow, that's... harsh. Sorry to hear that."

"What about you?" Dan asked. "Any family?"

"To get down right to it, my dad's a douche and my mother died of cancer a couple years back."

"Oh."

Leave to the mention of horrible family members to make a conversation awkward.

But the silence of the ship once again reminded me of last night's shit storm - as well as the exhaustion the accompanied it.

"Get some shut-eye," Dan said as I suppressed the 100th yawn. "I'll wake you when we get there."

Malen Sharkeen was annoyed.

Very annoyed.

A massive, ego-fuelled rant by her spirits-assed of a superior on her birthday was not the day's agenda. Neither was the umpteenth lecture on red tape and diplomacy by Chellick.

The turian detective, had then, during a solo lunch of a Partinax sandwich at the nearby Gonzos, decided that she would have her way on her special day. No threat of suspension or mountain of red tape would stop her from solving crime her way within the next 24 hours. She had received a tip from one her informants that the Blue Suns were conducting a red sand deal through a middleman later in the day, and she made a promise to actually act on the information for once.

So there she was, sitting at one of the ridiculously shiny booths of the Silver Coast Casino, and ordering the insanely expensive -and ironically cheapest- turian dish on the menu, sithurin: roast vakken drizzled with dura sauce and topped with organic leaves imported from Palaven. Bad enough that she wouldn't be able to claim reimbursement for the 40 credits from C-Sec, the fact that the dish presented to her on a platinum-lined plate tasted nothing like the delectable childhood delight made by her mother back home felt like a stinging insult in the form of a claw to the mandibles.

"By the spirits, this is a sham!" she muttered under her breath just as a crowd at the opposite bar burst into drunken cheers. A shifty-looking purple-skinned drell had been standing next to the human bartenders even before Malen had reached, playing the role of an ingredient. The turian shivered - taking a sip of her horosk as she watched a group of severely inebriated humans down glasses of Weeping Hearts. Why they would think that adding drell-skin venom into their alcohol was a good idea, she would never comprehend.

One of them - a stocky, extremely muscular man with a ridiculously long and thick beard, suddenly roared, "I AM MARCUS TEACH, REVERED DESCENDENT OF THE GREAT AND MIGHTY EDWARD TEACH, THE REMAINING BLOODLINE OF BLACKBEARD! ALL OF YOU BOW BEFORE ME!" before slumping to the cold hard floor of the casino on his back.

Malen reverted her blue eyes back to her target: the green-eyed, dark-haired human male sitting at the-

He's gone! Spirits!

She stood up, frantically scanning the crowd for a familiar figure.

There he was!

The detective followed him, walking towards the exit - but promptly stopped by the pompous waiter.

"Your check, ma'am," he said dryly.

Malen impatiently tossed him a 50-credit chit.

"I'm afraid it is insufficient, ma'am. You are lacking 10 more credits."

Spirits! I don't have time for this!

The turian fished for a random chit in her pockets and tossed it to the annoying human without looking. She hoped it wasn't the 100-credit one.

Bursting through the exits, Malen found herself standing -and being pushed around- among the jam-packed streets of the Silversun Strip. Finding her target was next to impossible.

So much for solving crime tonight.

Then that was when she saw it, out of the corner of her eye - the glimmer of a rifle scope, up on one of the sleek metal bridges. It was shaking, moving erratically, even - a fight between an assassin and an unexpected assailant, her gut told her. Malen followed the scope's line of sight... and her eyes ended up finding the target she had been trying to find in the first place.

"Assassin!" she hollered as best she could over the noisy crowds of the strip. She didn't think he had heard her, until she saw his ears prick and head turned around.

Just in time for a round to sear through perfectly in the middle of his forehead.

A/N: Yay for extra-long comeback chapter! Okay, yes, I know I suck big time at writing Blasto lines (there are quite a number of writers on this site who can cook up the most fantastic Blasto one-liners) but hey, they are meant to suck, right?

Also, creator credits to ITman496 for Daniel Werbin and Syrma, Ninja Elf Girl for the purple-skinned drell (she-who-shall-not-be-named-yet) and Malen Sharkeen, and CigarChomper for Marcus Teach aka Blackbeard on crack. Most of their appearances so far (and in the near future) are cameo, but rest assured I'll squeeze screen-time out of them like how I do to my lemons.

PS. FF is very buggy right now, and uploading documents somehow remove words randomly. Let me know of any grammatical mistakes!

PPS. Yes, if you still don't understand the last line, Grayson basically went on the receiving end of a headshot. There haven't been many dark-haired, green-eyed men so far.